Fic: Flying Lessons (11/12)
Flying Lessons (11/12)
by Me, doctorpancakes
Fandoms: Boosh/Barley crossover
Pairings: Dan/Jones and Howard/Vince
Rating: R, this chapter
Word Count: 935, this chapter (13558 so far)
Warnings: entry-level musical theory and expert-level guy-on-guy gay action
Disclaimer: Don't own Boosh, don't own Barley. I just borrow them for fun in the night times. THE FUZZY TINGLE TIMES.
Author's Notes: This chapter is shorter than the others. And it's... yeah. This is a chapter. Happy Monday!
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Meanwhile, on the very same spot that the Spirit of Noise had first manifested himself to Vince some hours earlier, Dan Ashcroft found himself being mauled by an especially amorous Jones. Never mind the fact that the response to his book launch had been lukewarm at best, and that there had been conflicting reports as to the success of Dancing Banana Trees’ gig such that he had no idea whether or not it had gone well. Never mind that this entire outing across the ocean had turned out as unsuccessfully as he ought to have predicted. Never mind that dodgy public toilets had a tendency to give him panic flashbacks, though the static, it seemed, was enough to block them out more effectively than his customary internal mantra of don’tpanicdon’tpanicdon’tpanic. Never mind all that because Jones was pawing at the burgeoning swell in the front of his jeans, and that, at that moment, was far more important than anything else.
Somewhere beyond the static, they could hear the thumps and bassline of the music pumping out of the club’s speakers - Jones thought it might have been an MGMT song. The song was in 6/4 time, as far as Jones could tell. 6/4 time was one of Jones’ favourite time signatures. While 4/4 was pretty much everyone’s friend, and 3/4 was at once a bit stuck-up and at times overly sentimental, and 2/4 was hopelessly optimistic, 6/4 was a swaggering badass, teeming with sexual energy; a complicated fellow, to be sure, but not so cerebral as 5/4 or 9/8, who were almost wholly removed from the baser emotions. 6/4 time was the best time signature to fuck to.
All Dan knew was that he was coinciding with Jones again and again at a furious pace, and found himself being guided into the nearest unoccupied bathroom stall. Every beat felt like thunderbolts in his chest; every instance and point of contact sparked like the feeling of a nine-volt battery pressed to the tip of the tongue, turned up to eleven and shot through his entire body.
“Shit,” Dan sighed, breaking away slightly.
“What, babe?” asked Jones, with heartbreaking concern.
“It’s just,” Dan screwed up his face with awkward sadness, “ lube.”
A grin the size of Park Slope spread across Jones’ face.
“That’s it?” he laughed. “I got us covered!”
Jones fumbled about in his pockets, producing a small tube of lubricant. How he fit anything at all in the pockets of jeans that impossibly snug, Dan had no idea. He smiled.
“Yeah,” he nodded with a small chuckle. “But why do you have it here?”
“Always got to be prepared,” shrugged Jones, nuzzling into Dan’s scruffy neck. Dan smelled like cigarettes and afternoon nap.
Jones hugged the curve of Dan’s lower back with one hand, hitching down his pants with the other as he descended. Dan’s pants were dark grey. All his pants were dark grey.
Jones’ pants were red and had little footballs printed on them.
Jones flicked his tongue against Dan; Dan’s consciousness was obliterated. He threaded his hands loosely in Jones’ haphazard, shaggy hair - now dyed in shades of red and blonde, though he had been through so many colours in his adult life that Dan wondered if he remembered what his natural colour was. Jones’ hand curled round behind Dan, and in that gentle, almost shy way he had of doing things, found his way into him. Dan’s breath hitched, buzzing.
“Just fuck me already, Jones,” he gasped, short of breath.
Jones giggled, turning him roughly into the wall, nipping at the back of his neck.
“You sure?” he whispered.
“Fuck, yeah,” replied Dan.
Paying no heed to the likelihood that they could be overheard by the other patrons of Shit Mountain’s men’s toilet, Dan growled with reckless abandon when Jones pushed into him, squeezing Dan gently as he did, and biting down hard where his neck met his shoulder.
Jones had the uncanny ability to speak to sound. Time signatures had personalities, tones had colours, frequencies had flavours he could taste as acutely as he could taste that first bite of kebab at five in the morning after a long night out. He felt the meanings in sound in ways most people, it turned out, could only guess at. And now, he felt the noise with all his senses simultaneously. He felt it all through Dan, and Dan felt it all too. They felt it times a million.
Jones held onto Dan like he was afraid of flying apart, of getting lost in the crackle and fuzz and not being able to find his way back. He held onto Dan, sneaking a hand up under the front of his shirt and splaying it across his warm chest, holding him there, feeling the movements of his ragged breathing and heartbeat; the other hand was stroking him in 6/4 time, stroking in time as he moved in Dan, as Dan’s breath quickened and he whispered “ohfuckcomingcomingcoming,” as he let out a little whimper that sounded like pure being, and spilled over Jones’ chipped nail polish and collapsed into him slightly, until all Jones could hear sounded like those patterns that form on the back of your eyelids when you’re dizzy or you’ve been rubbing your eyes too much, and then the patterns went supernova, and he loved Dan and Dan loved him and they loved the world, and he came.
Static, crackle, and then quiet.
Chapter Twelve
by Me, doctorpancakes
Fandoms: Boosh/Barley crossover
Pairings: Dan/Jones and Howard/Vince
Rating: R, this chapter
Word Count: 935, this chapter (13558 so far)
Warnings: entry-level musical theory and expert-level guy-on-guy gay action
Disclaimer: Don't own Boosh, don't own Barley. I just borrow them for fun in the night times. THE FUZZY TINGLE TIMES.
Author's Notes: This chapter is shorter than the others. And it's... yeah. This is a chapter. Happy Monday!
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Meanwhile, on the very same spot that the Spirit of Noise had first manifested himself to Vince some hours earlier, Dan Ashcroft found himself being mauled by an especially amorous Jones. Never mind the fact that the response to his book launch had been lukewarm at best, and that there had been conflicting reports as to the success of Dancing Banana Trees’ gig such that he had no idea whether or not it had gone well. Never mind that this entire outing across the ocean had turned out as unsuccessfully as he ought to have predicted. Never mind that dodgy public toilets had a tendency to give him panic flashbacks, though the static, it seemed, was enough to block them out more effectively than his customary internal mantra of don’tpanicdon’tpanicdon’tpanic. Never mind all that because Jones was pawing at the burgeoning swell in the front of his jeans, and that, at that moment, was far more important than anything else.
Somewhere beyond the static, they could hear the thumps and bassline of the music pumping out of the club’s speakers - Jones thought it might have been an MGMT song. The song was in 6/4 time, as far as Jones could tell. 6/4 time was one of Jones’ favourite time signatures. While 4/4 was pretty much everyone’s friend, and 3/4 was at once a bit stuck-up and at times overly sentimental, and 2/4 was hopelessly optimistic, 6/4 was a swaggering badass, teeming with sexual energy; a complicated fellow, to be sure, but not so cerebral as 5/4 or 9/8, who were almost wholly removed from the baser emotions. 6/4 time was the best time signature to fuck to.
All Dan knew was that he was coinciding with Jones again and again at a furious pace, and found himself being guided into the nearest unoccupied bathroom stall. Every beat felt like thunderbolts in his chest; every instance and point of contact sparked like the feeling of a nine-volt battery pressed to the tip of the tongue, turned up to eleven and shot through his entire body.
“Shit,” Dan sighed, breaking away slightly.
“What, babe?” asked Jones, with heartbreaking concern.
“It’s just,” Dan screwed up his face with awkward sadness, “ lube.”
A grin the size of Park Slope spread across Jones’ face.
“That’s it?” he laughed. “I got us covered!”
Jones fumbled about in his pockets, producing a small tube of lubricant. How he fit anything at all in the pockets of jeans that impossibly snug, Dan had no idea. He smiled.
“Yeah,” he nodded with a small chuckle. “But why do you have it here?”
“Always got to be prepared,” shrugged Jones, nuzzling into Dan’s scruffy neck. Dan smelled like cigarettes and afternoon nap.
Jones hugged the curve of Dan’s lower back with one hand, hitching down his pants with the other as he descended. Dan’s pants were dark grey. All his pants were dark grey.
Jones’ pants were red and had little footballs printed on them.
Jones flicked his tongue against Dan; Dan’s consciousness was obliterated. He threaded his hands loosely in Jones’ haphazard, shaggy hair - now dyed in shades of red and blonde, though he had been through so many colours in his adult life that Dan wondered if he remembered what his natural colour was. Jones’ hand curled round behind Dan, and in that gentle, almost shy way he had of doing things, found his way into him. Dan’s breath hitched, buzzing.
“Just fuck me already, Jones,” he gasped, short of breath.
Jones giggled, turning him roughly into the wall, nipping at the back of his neck.
“You sure?” he whispered.
“Fuck, yeah,” replied Dan.
Paying no heed to the likelihood that they could be overheard by the other patrons of Shit Mountain’s men’s toilet, Dan growled with reckless abandon when Jones pushed into him, squeezing Dan gently as he did, and biting down hard where his neck met his shoulder.
Jones had the uncanny ability to speak to sound. Time signatures had personalities, tones had colours, frequencies had flavours he could taste as acutely as he could taste that first bite of kebab at five in the morning after a long night out. He felt the meanings in sound in ways most people, it turned out, could only guess at. And now, he felt the noise with all his senses simultaneously. He felt it all through Dan, and Dan felt it all too. They felt it times a million.
Jones held onto Dan like he was afraid of flying apart, of getting lost in the crackle and fuzz and not being able to find his way back. He held onto Dan, sneaking a hand up under the front of his shirt and splaying it across his warm chest, holding him there, feeling the movements of his ragged breathing and heartbeat; the other hand was stroking him in 6/4 time, stroking in time as he moved in Dan, as Dan’s breath quickened and he whispered “ohfuckcomingcomingcoming,” as he let out a little whimper that sounded like pure being, and spilled over Jones’ chipped nail polish and collapsed into him slightly, until all Jones could hear sounded like those patterns that form on the back of your eyelids when you’re dizzy or you’ve been rubbing your eyes too much, and then the patterns went supernova, and he loved Dan and Dan loved him and they loved the world, and he came.
Static, crackle, and then quiet.
Chapter Twelve